Blue Dreams
by Pidraya
Summary: At a loose end.


_**Author's note:  
**_

I am not sure if you will see this, _**Alex**_, but on the offchance that you will .. thank you for pointing out my error in the first chapter of Overseas. I've changed it to 'British Army'. Really appreciate you taking the time to leave a note:)

* * *

_**Gibbs' apartment in Naples, Italy**_

_**March 18th, 1999**_

_**2230**_

As he hauls the hamper off the ground, he wonders briefly if it's too late to be doing laundry - on account of the neighbours. But there's nothing much to do except drink at this time of the night, and he isn't lonely enough for that.

It's more that he's at a loose end, really.

Jenny's out with Pat. Pacci and Callen are at some football club meeting. He thinks Ducky is at the ballet. On a date.

As he rummages through the basket his fingers snag on something soft. Something which can't possibly be his, he thinks as he pulls it free of the tangled soiled bedsheets.

Turns out he's right.

The lacy underwear he's affectionately dubbed _mocha patch_ come into view. Sparking a memory of the night he'd ripped them off her. And with it the realization that he owes her a new pair of panties - because as he holds them up to the light, it's abundantly clear that the crotch is beyond repair.

He rubs the material between his thumb and forefinger, trying to remember what she looked like that night.

Or was it afternoon?

His mind begins to wander to the minutiae.

The toe nails painted ox blood red; the shapely legs which seem to go on forever when she's half naked; the firm thighs; the cloud of russet between him and bliss; the almost-flat planes of her stomach; the full breasts with their firm, peaked nipples; the arms, more than strong enough to hold him at bay or hold him close; the inviting neck; the sinful mouth; the auburn tresses gathered over one shoulder when she looked straight at him.

She'd looked like a wanton goddess.

He smiles again as he feels the feels the first tightening of his scrotum, but as he bends down to toss the panties into the machine, he can smell her in the air. Sweet musk turned somewhat stale - which hardens him indefinably. Making him abandon the idea of doing laundry and reach down past his waistband instead. One hand strokes up and down; clenching the base and stretching up towards the tip. The other one fingers the material.

Drowning in his own desires, he brings it up to his face.

Inhaling scent which has lingered.

Strong. Erotic. With a personality all its own.

With each breath in and out, the fabric flutters against his nose and lips - and his hand clenches tighter still.

He can hear her low and husky voice with hardly any effort at all - because at this point in their relationship he knows exactly what she wants by the sounds she makes.

She's a woman of many moods. Of more facets than he ever remembers having in a lover. And her voice is often the key to those moods. When she wants control, her voice is direct. When she wants to be dominated, it is small. When she wants to be courted into sex, it has the quality of a question. When he touches her legs or her breasts, she sighs. Deeply. When he moves inside her she makes short sharp anxious sounds which morph into keen guttural moans when he hits the right spot.

An array of words which gain rapid momentum before blending together.

For the most part they are monosyllabic and unintelligible – but he understands anyway.

And right before she comes …

He strokes harder still at the thought of what she sounds like _then_.

Aware that his body is begging for something more satisfying than his right hand.

But he's unwilling to stop.

He can feel the pulsation beneath his fingers, feel his balls starting to tighten with conviction. So he runs his fingers around the head. Becoming conscious of his own sounds as he does so. Of the quickening breath reverberating in the tiny room.

Immersed in the sensation of throbbing ridges and soft material, his mind remembers the feel of her skin.

He can't decide if she's silk or satin. She may well be both.

Smooth. Alternating between cool and warm.

She feels warm against his own skin as she slides above him in his mind's eye, but her breasts are cool as they press against his chest. Her tongue is pressing roughly against his, and her hands pull his head closer to her own as she kisses him long and deep.

She teases him. Grinding against his crotch. Her tongue slipping out of his mouth to slide around his ear and down his neck. He can feel her teeth gently biting his earlobe, and realizes he is moaning.

Loudly.

Almost unable to hold back as he relives their last time together.

She lifts up just enough for him to enter her, and he savours her throb as he does so.

Savours her wetness.

His mind feels as though it's on fire as he remembers the ways her thighs clamped, the way she tightened around him as she came.

He strokes and stops. Again and again.

Trying to delay the inevitable.

Wanting to remember the way she tastes as he finds release.

He thinks of his tongue tracing her spine and the small of her back.

He thinks of the slightly salty tang to the nipples which harden in his mouth.

He thinks of sliding his tongue between her labia – and he strokes harder and faster.

No longer able to distinguish what is real from what is not.

He becomes aware of another body next to his when he is almost over the edge, and is more than happy to surrender to the familiar hand which takes over from him.

"Thought you weren't coming tonight," he says when he recovers.

Jen smiles as she runs her thumb across his cheek and places a chaste kiss on his lips.

"I missed you."


End file.
